


We Don't Want Your Body

by Donteatacowman



Series: murder the cathetus [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, ernesto being gross, sin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 16:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13344963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donteatacowman/pseuds/Donteatacowman
Summary: Twoshot about bittersweet relationships.1: Ernesto, Imelda, and Héctor know the value of togetherness. The road to fame is a rocky one, but they know how to weather it.2: Ernesto de la Cruz returns to his hometown for a performance. It's a mistake he won't make again, though he hardly sees it that way.





	1. Chapter 1

Ernesto was intoxicated in more ways than one.

That much was evident from the way he dipped and grinned, face reddening and smile gleaming. He’d always been reserved and so nervous about talking to anyone beyond his little circle of friends. Héctor was the true talent out of the two of them, even if he was younger by a handful of years. Ernesto had the level head, the experience, but Héctor was the one who could smarm and charm a crowd like he’d been born with a guitar in one hand and the other hand held open for tips. 

It took a lot of time and attention from Héctor convince Ernesto to play. But when he did? It was transformative. The difference was stark. Before, Ernesto had never gotten past his stage fright to experience the thrill of an audience’s attention. Now, when he played, he acted like an addict, drunk on the electricity of a crowd. Héctor felt like he should pull him away. Friends don’t let friends make asses of themselves. It was a rule he made, then and there: You don’t give an alcoholic a shot of tequila and you don’t let Ernesto play a solo.

But now that Ernesto knew what he wanted, it was impossible to pull him away. It had always been like that. Héctor felt helpless to watch from the crowd as Ernesto sang flirtily to a chica in the front row, who responded in kind, tugging at Ernesto’s pink hand-me-down moño and pulling him in for a kiss. She was probably drunk, too, though only on booze.

Ernesto saw Héctor’s prying eyes and laughed, still halfway through his song. He strummed, bouncing and belting out lyrics, getting closer to Héctor with every note. Héctor sunk down in his seat, but it was too late--Ernesto was making him part of the performance. 

The same sweet nonsense of a chorus that he’d sung to the drunk girl was coming out of Ernesto’s mouth now. Héctor sighed, but heaved himself up from the table with a flourish, his chair clattering to the ground behind him. All elbows and knees, Héctor threw himself atop the table and bowed, giving a hand to Ernesto, who took it. They sang together, though Héctor wasn’t nearly as loud. 

When the song was over and the audience was clapping, Héctor grabbed Ernesto’s moño and planted a kiss on his lips. 

The crowd laughed, jeering and clapping. They thought it was part of the act. It was. Ernesto beamed anyway and Héctor laughed, complaining that he’d be blinded by the man’s white teeth.

“It was good,” Héctor said later that night. The bed they were in was cramped, but the night air was cold, so he appreciated the heat of the bodies beside him. “The money flowed almost as freely as the liquor.”

“It was a small venue,” Ernesto said despairingly. 

“Ay, they’re always too small for you,” Imelda said. It sounded critical but Héctor saw the teasing gleam in her eye. 

“He’s an addict already,” Héctor agreed. “Some linger long over wine.  _ He _ lingers long over music. What kind of adult would have let their kid try it?”

“We’re failures as parents,” Imelda responded, voice muffled as she threw an arm over her face. 

Ernesto scoffed. “I’m older than the  _ both of you _ .”

“I’ve failed you, mijo.” Héctor turned toward Ernesto. “I’ve driven you to a life of debauchery and guitar-playing. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Tonight’s performance paid for our room,” Ernesto retorted. 

Héctor was silent before exclaiming, “Oh! Our son, the musical sensation! Imelda, have you ever been so proud?”

“He’ll be a millionaire,” Imelda said, playing along. “Taking care of us in our old age!” 

Ernesto ran a hand through his hair, messy curls hanging in his face. “The two of you, I swear. God have mercy if you ever have a real child.” 

“Ah-ah-ah,” Imelda cut in, sitting up. “Don’t jinx us! I couldn’t take care of a miniature Héctor, dancing around in the streets, running about without shoes, leeching off his betters for a wage!” 

“You never know,” Héctor said, smug. “You could get a tiny Ernesto instead. Can’t you hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet, scrambling around and--”

“And begging for my attention, day in and day out?” Imelda gave a  _ tch _ . “I have enough babies to take care of as it is.”

“Ah, but--” Héctor started, and Ernesto said it at the same time he did: “You love us!”

“That I do,” she said, rolling her eyes. She leaned over Héctor’s body, smoothing down Ernesto’s shoulders. “My silly boys.” And she kissed Ernesto deeply. Héctor laughed as she did, watching Imelda’s body over his, reverently putting a hand on her waist. Then giving a squeeze with his other hand on a spot even lower.

She squeaked into the kiss. Both men laughed at her. 

They fooled around like that for a time, enjoying each other’s closeness. The evening was late, though, and Héctor found himself pulling away from Ernesto at one point. Ernesto didn’t notice at first, hands grasping and body warming against his friend’s. Héctor had to push the man’s face away, coughing, before Ernesto finally seemed to notice. 

“What is it?” he said, voice husky, though his voice stayed pressed against Héctor’s. 

“My mouth is dry,” Héctor mumbled. Ernesto offered to fix that for him, but he shook his head. “I think I’m done for the night. I’ll leave you two alone.”

Imelda was on the other side of the bed now, but she made a noise of agreement. She rubbed at Ernesto’s chest and whispered in his ear. The same hungry kiss that Ernesto had offered Héctor was now hers, and Héctor could hear the two of them from outside when he went to the well pump. By the time he returned, Imelda was nestled against Ernesto snugly. Héctor slid beside the two of them. 

“Sorry,” he said quietly, not wanting to stir Imelda if she was dozing already. 

Ernesto ignored the apology. “Why didn’t you play with me tonight, amigo?”

“I did,” Héctor said. He was tired, and he turned his back to Ernesto, though his friend’s arm slung over his side comfortingly. 

“You know what I mean. We were supposed to perform together.”

Héctor bit his lip. Ernesto was a force of nature when he played. And as much as Héctor was  _ good _ at playing, at joking with the audience and summoning beauty from his guitar, the stage felt lonesome to him. He didn’t like playing alone. And playing with Ernesto? He might as well have been doing it solo. The man lost himself to the crowd as soon as the music started. “Let’s not tonight, Ernesto,” he murmured sleepily. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.  ¿Claro?”

Ernesto said something in response, but  Héctor didn’t hear it. He was already asleep.

In the night, he was roused by something, a deep rumbling tune. Héctor turned. Ernesto was still awake, staring at the ceiling. He was humming. 

Héctor sighed, then leaned up to peck the man’s cheek. Ernesto fell silent. “Sleep,” Héctor said. Ernesto reluctantly nodded. Héctor drifted off again.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn’t often that Ernesto de la Cruz performed near Santa Cecilia. Imelda wouldn’t have cared if he did. She’d seen his name on papers, heard it around town. So what? The man reminded her of unhappiness.

And even if she had wanted to see him perform--which she didn’t--and even if she were curious if he’d sing any of Héctor’s old songs on stage--which she wasn’t--Imelda was sure Ernesto only did late nightclubs and bars and such. Nothing she could sneak away to without worrying about Coco’s whereabouts. Though she _wouldn’t_ want to, of course. Absolutely not.

But some things were inescapable. Imelda may not have heard any of Ernesto’s music, but where his homecoming performance was held was common knowledge in town. “Didn’t you know him?” one or two people might ask her, but she changed the subject each time. “I made shoes for him once” was the most anyone got out of her.

A neighbor, chatting at the market, once had the nerve to start to say, “Weren’t he and that Héctor fellow--” before she leveled a glare at him so furiously that he shut up, too fearful to continue.

The morning after his homecoming performance, though, Coco was cleaning house while Imelda ran an errand in town. She came to the bar Ernesto was supposed to be in the previous night. It was quiet, empty, though she’d heard the clamor into the wee hours of the morning. She pushed the door open, stepping in.

The old days came back to her in a rush and she didn’t resist them. The smell of beer, the torn decorations, some broken bottles littered at her feet, and a guitar on a platform that seemed oh, so familiar. She stepped toward it in a trance. It was _too_ familiar--

And she heard a moan.

Imelda whipped around, one foot up like a flamingo and hand scrabbling down to grab at her heel, as she focused on the body splayed out on the bar a few feet away.

“Ernesto?” she said hesitantly. She felt like she’d walked into a dream.

When he didn’t answer, she came to his side, shaking him gently. Then harder. “Ernesto!” she said sharply, turning him face-up so she could identify his face for certain. It was Ernesto de la Cruz, though greener in the face than the last time she’d seen him. “For God’s sake, get up!” she snapped. “You’re embarrassing yourself!”

He started to rouse, singing something to himself. An old habit of his, she remembered distantly, though in this case it was probably the song he’d been in the middle of before passing out on the bar. Ernesto looked up, bleary-eyed. “Imelda?” he finally said stupidly.

“You’re damn right, _Imelda_!” she said, pushing him off the bar. He fell, loudly knocking over a bottle as he did, though he scrambled to his feet soon after. “What the _hell_ is all this? You dare come back to my town, keep all of Santa Cecilia up until four in the morning with your racket, booze yourself up, then pass out on the bar like a--”

As she talked, Ernesto rounded the counter. Though his expression showed that he was still drunk, his pace was steady. He put a hand on her shoulder, interrupting her. His breath smelled, and his hair was ruffled, and he had a rip in his sky-blue gala jacket, but his face still held a dignity that Ernesto always seemed to have in his lowest moments. She stopped shouting.

“What happened to you?” Imelda said instead, quiet and pitying.

Something changed in Ernesto’s eyes. A steely resolution, some kind of change that Imelda saw for just a second before it escaped her grasp forever. “I seized my moment,” he said. His voice was scratchy but strong.

“You left us,” she said in response, belatedly pulling away from the hand resting on her shoulder. Her mouth curled up and her nose wrinkled. “Just like _he_ did.”

“Yes, yes, you and…” Ernesto seemed to be searching for the name.

“ _Coco_.” Imelda was disgusted at this wreck of a man. “Her name is _Coco_. And you left _your_ family here, too, Ernesto! Do you know what they would s--”

Ernesto shushed her and Imelda saw red. “I missed you, Imelda,” he said with a smile, a half-hearted version of the grin he used to charm young girls and boys. It had worked on her, once, but that was when she was naive. Inexperienced. Stupid and gullible.

“You pathetic trash,” she said in reply. Imelda spun on her homemade and expertly-crafted heel, fully intending to finish her errand and get back home with her daughter where she belonged.

“Wait, Imelda! Wait,” he called after her. She didn’t intend to stop, but suddenly, her feet had stopped walking. She stared at the shoes, primly planted underneath her body, futilely commanding them to move.

When that didn’t work, she frostily answered, “What.”

“I missed you,” he said again. It sounded sincere this time.

She still didn’t believe him, but her shoulders slumped. Her breath escaped her in a rush. “Where did he _go_?” she said, turning her head back to face him. She hated how raw her voice felt in her throat.

Ernesto walked to her side. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “He left me, too.” When he reached forward, the tips of his fingers grasping her palm, she didn’t pull away.

They stood there for a moment before she embraced him. She didn’t cry, no.

Underneath the booze and staleness and dirty fabric there was still the old familiar scent of Ernesto and, in that scent, the feel of cold summer nights huddled together in a rented bed when they were young and foolish.

It wasn’t quite noon when they found a room in the bar together. If she’d been thinking straight, Imelda would have made sure to lock it. Ernesto _was_ thinking straight, but he didn’t touch the door. It was cracked open, distractingly, teasing Imelda with the thought of being caught. She could hear the bustle of the market behind a window curtain. Everything everywhere reminded her that this was her home, this was Santa Cecilia, this was _her home_ and Ernesto was invading, whether he'd been invited or no.

He murmured dirty nonsense in her ear as he nipped it. His hands were rougher than they used to be, calloused by the bite of guitar strings, and they were more rushed than she remembered. Before she could even gather her thoughts, he was already beneath her blouse, cupping and rubbing and pinching and grabbing everything he could. It was happening so quickly, nothing like Imelda remembered, and her stomach churned. But his mouth was on hers and she didn’t refuse it, didn’t quite want to refuse it. It had been too long. It had been _too long_.

The sex, like the room they were in and like Ernesto himself, was messy and harsh.

There was a cushioned chaise lounge, old and battered but useful enough for what they were doing. Ernesto was too enthusiastic, no romance in his touches, none of the gentle laughs or teasing pecks that she remembered. But she, too, was done with romance. Imelda didn’t want anything from this but a feeling. So she pursued that feeling, getting frantic as it got closer, Ernesto’s hands tangling in her hair and undoing her tight bun, her own fingers seeking warm flesh and grasping at the ecstasy that seemed just out of reach, until finally, _finally_ , everything was okay. It was okay for just a split second of joy and fulfillment, of pure and simple physicality that was nearly worth the letdown as the years of anger and loss crashed down on her again.

When she pulled away from Ernesto, feeling dirty and pulling down her skirt to cover herself again, Ernesto laughed.

“Brings back memories, eh, Imelda?” he said, oblivious to the emotion saturating the room.

“You don’t know me,” she snapped. “This. What happened here? Does not leave this room. You see me on the street, you don’t know me.” She fumbled with the ribbon that barely clung onto the remains of her bun. Feeling flyaways, she smoothed them. Her face felt hot and sweaty. She’d blame it on the weather. “This is the last time I see you ever. We don’t talk. We don’t write. And you _never_ come back to Santa Cecilia again. We are _ashamed_ of you here.”

Music was pouring in from the window, a tune that felt haunting and heavy, though it was just a little ballad being played by a street musician for tips. It made Imelda think of late nights before _he_ left for a performance, and it made her righteously angry, though she wouldn’t have been able to articulate why.

Ernesto hummed along, smug. He was splayed out on the chaise lounge, half-naked and unashamed. “The hometown of the famous De la Cruz? Ashamed of me? Hah! What is there to be ashamed of? You and I, we’re alike. We see what we want, we reach out and take it.” His voice was dripping with innuendo.

Imelda finished preening and wiping away evidence, not caring for any mess she made. The place was already filthy. Who would notice? “Goodbye, Ernesto,” she said, disgusted at the man and at herself. “Rot in hell.” And as a parting shot, she added, “ _Both_ of you can.”

Ernesto burst out laughing as Imelda picked her way over broken bottles and discarded shot glasses.

By the time she was outside in the midday market again, through the open window of the bar’s back room, she could faintly hear Ernesto humming himself back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had so many plotbunnies for Miguel bad-ends and post-canon hijinks, but somehow I can't not write this story. Started out as crack but here we are.
> 
> Inspired by "We Don't Want Your Body" by Stars.


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